


Young Hearts

by ipso_facto, mastress (ipso_facto)



Series: Liss Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fluff, young!Cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipso_facto/pseuds/ipso_facto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipso_facto/pseuds/mastress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The quiet hush of the morning hours becomes theirs, and under his careful tutelage Liss grows graceful and strong. She finds her rhythm in the dance of their blades, and through her stillness, he discovers his center.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** This involves **underage sex**. The characters are 16-17 and it is totally consensual, but since that is under the age of consent in some places and may be squicky, I don’t want anyone to be surprised by it.
> 
> This is an OC, although not the Inquisitor. This takes place much earlier in Cullen’s life. And I used the name of one of the templars mentioned in The World of Thedas, vol. 2 to make it fit with canon, but other than that, the character and situation are my own.

At 16, Cullen is and headstrong and sure in his path, devoted to his studies. But there are those around him who seem to lack the discipline and focus which define him. Though many of the trainees began their studies earlier, very few have worked harder, and as is the way of things among the idle younger sons of nobles, there are plenty of diversions. He is not an unobservant youth, nor an unpopular one, and even among the templar trainees there are kissing games and long looks and evenings spent laughing and drinking under the stars, and Cullen is far from immune. Young hearts are a force not even the Maker can control.

That spring there is a new girl, the same age as he, pretty and quiet, with waves of dark hair and an upturned little nose. He learns her name is Anlisse.

“Liss,” she says to him one day as they stroll towards the armory in companionable silence, faces shiny with sweat, padded practice helmets tucked under their arms. The glow of the sunset catches in her hair, glinting auburn in the dying light.

“Pardon?” says Cullen, pulling himself up short.

“You can call me Liss,” she repeats, chuckling gently as Cullen stumbles forward a few steps, rushes to stay by her side. It is then he realizes her laughter is like music, and remembers that hymns are his favorite subject.

They begin to study together, reciting bits of the Chant to each other over meals, debating the ethics of magic late into the night. Coming late to the Chantry, she is even more devoted than he, and one morning she knocks on his door before the sun is up, pleads and cajoles until he agrees to join her in the training yard. Her light eyes are heavy with promises he does not yet understand, and when he opens his mouth, the voice that answers is husky from more than sleep.

She comes again the next morning, and the next. It isn’t long before he learns to rise in advance of her knock. The quiet hush of the morning hours becomes theirs, and under his careful tutelage Liss grows graceful and strong. She finds her rhythm in the dance of their blades, and through her stillness, he discovers his center.

Too soon the heat of summer fades to fall, and the mornings grow short. They move their practice to the late afternoon, skipping the evening meal in favor of more time spent in each other’s company. After a few weeks of this, he charms the cook with a shy grin into setting aside some bread, cheese, and a couple of apples for them, and collects them on his way back from the bathing room.

When he knocks on her door that night, hand scrubbing the back of his neck as he waits, he feels something both new and ancient lodge itself in his chest, feels an unusual flutter in his stomach. And when she answers, he sees that the heat in his cheeks is mirrored in her own, the little smattering of freckles across her nose standing out in sharp relief.

They spread the blanket on the stone floor of her room and call it a picnic. He cuts the apple into wedges with his knife and offers them to her, one by one, alternating bites between their laughter. His hand brushes hers by accident when they reach as one for the last of the bread, and he stills, unsure. But her fingers twine with his, and Liss brings them gently to her lips, the food forgotten between them.

Her smile in the candlelight is soft, her kisses equally so. They should be working, he knows, but the willpower he is meant to cultivate is no match for the fall of her hair or the curve of her hips under his still-too-large hands.

It is slow and sometimes fumbling, but over time they find that their bodies fit together in the bedroom much the same as they do in practice. He learns that she will keen with pleasure when she is astride him, one nipple tight in his mouth, thrilling at the rasp of his tongue, while he rolls the other between his fingers. She knows that he will growl, low and rumbling, each time he enters her, memorizes the peculiar sound of his in-drawn breath just before he pushes through the last of her body’s resistance and slides inside. 

And after, as she lies curled in his arms, both of them tired and sated, she will sing softly under her breath. Strong and pure in her low, warm voice, her favorite verses of the Chant become his as well, following him into peaceful sleep.


End file.
